


Dark clouds over Blandings

by skinsuit



Category: Blandings Castle - P. G. Wodehouse, Dracula & Related Fandoms, WODEHOUSE P. G. - Works
Genre: F/M, Gen, Humor, Multiverse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-26
Updated: 2012-02-26
Packaged: 2017-10-31 18:37:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/347179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skinsuit/pseuds/skinsuit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A dark force coming to Blandings castle? What will Galahad do? what's already there? And Why are Ukridge and Corky taking a train ride? And what is up with the whacking great wolf? Very much a loving pastiche of Plum.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Drones club

The sun was streaming through the window of the Drones Club. An Egg said to a Crumpet:  
“I say, have you seen Sam Billington about?”

“Don’t you know?” replied the Crumpet. “He’s gone off to the country.”

“Oh, why?” inquired the Egg.

“His mother thinks the change of air will do him good,” said the Crumpet. “He’s been pining too much.”

“I saw him here a few days ago, he was limp as a dead eel and white as a sheet,” interjected a Bean. “I chucked a roll at him, just to get a jump out of him. When it made contact he didn’t react at all, just sort of gazed at it in a dull stupor.”

“You can’t blame him after that business with Doris Jenkins, his ex-fiancée,” said the Crumpet.

“Oh, what? Did she give him the shove?” asked the Egg, who hadn’t been informed of the latest gossip.

“No, worse,” said the Bean gravely. “She died.”

“Rummy thing, Doris Jenkins was in the pink of health when Sam proposed at the beginning of the month,” said the Crumpet meditatively. “By the end she was being put in the family crypt with the vicar reciting: ‘ashes to ashes, dust to dust’ over her. And all her maiden aunts sobbing.”

“Must have come as a great blow,” said the Egg.

“You bet it did,” said the Bean. 

“So where’s this place in the country he’s going to?” asked the Egg.

“Oh, some old pile in Shropshire owned by his late Aunt’s husband,” said the Crumpet. “Called Blandings.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sam Billington drove his two-seater absentmindedly,; all around him nature was in full bloom and displaying all of its charms. Normally Sam, who was an amateur painter, would have pulled over and started sketching, but not even a glorious sunset over a waterfall in a meadow full of wildflowers could have grabbed his attention. His mind was on Doris. He missed her of course, poor sweet dead Doris. Lately however he’d been having these rummy dreams. Doris would come to him in the night through his window. But something was wrong with her in the dreams… he couldn’t put his finger on it… she was very cold for one thing and her lips seemed redder and fuller. Also sometimes he wasn’t sure they were dreams. 

He was rudely awakened from his reverie by the sound of metal crunching as his car bumped over something, and a woman yelling.

He put his foot on the brake and backed up. There were the mangled remains of a bicycle. Coming at him was a youngish female of Amazonian build with her hands on her hips. Also the kind of expression worn by French peasants if offered a slice of gateau by Marie Antoinette. 

“You stupid clot! You completely destroyed my bike!” she shouted. “Don’t you know where you’re going?”

When confronted by the female of the species in such a way, the male of the species instinctively imitates a turtle and draws into himself. Sam would have put his head in his shell if he had one. 

“Oh- I-I’m dreadfully, terribly, sorry,” he sputtered like a broken faucet. “Is there any way to fix it?”

The girl was bending over her stricken bike with a resigned air. “N, you justabout finished it off,” she growled.

“Well, is there anything I can do?” he implored. “I could take you wherever you’re going.”

“No, I was wriggling out of my job for an afternoon,” she said. “I should be getting back.”

“I’ll take you,” Sam offered. “Where is it?

“Blandings Castle,” she said. 

“Hop in then,” he said. “I’m headed there myself.”

So she got in and he put his foot on the gas and they moved along. Introductions were made and she gave her name as Eglantine Hart. 

“And what do you do up at the castle?” he asked.

“I’m secretary to Lord Emsworth, although to tell the truth the old buffer doesn’t really want one,” Eglantine said. “That’s allright, because I wouldn’t like being a real secretary anyway.”

“What wereyou doing roaming the countryside with a bike?” he asked.

“Well, there have been all these rumors about a whacking great wolf running here around lately,” she said. “At first I thought it was load of rubbish, but a farmer found a paw print. I’m bagging it, if I can.” A merry light danced in her eyes at the idea of killing this animal.

Wolves; that made him think once more of those dreams he had of Doris. There were always wolves howling in the background and his neighbor’s pekes barking.

“Oh, you like hunting?” he asked languidly.

“Rather!”she replied. 

Mentally, he compared this Eglantine Hart with his late Doris. They were very different. Doris had been petite; Eglantine was nearly as tall he was. Doris was a blonde and Eglantine a brunette. Doris had a tiny upturned nose and Eglantine a long straight one. Eglantine had brown eyes, Doris blue. Eglantine was vivacious, Doris demure. However, deep inside him, through the layers of sadness and weariness, he had this desire to hold her under the moonlight and cover her face with burning kisses.

Eglantine meanwhile, was looking at Sam, thinking about how depressed, listless, tired and pale he looked. She regretted her hard words; after all, it was only a bike. She wished she could soothe the sorrow within him and make him happy

“So why are you coming to Blandings?” she asked.

“Oh, my mother thinks a change of scene will do me good. Thinks I’m pining away,” he said. 

“Pining?” she asked. “For what?”

“Doris, my former fiancée,”he said. “And it does rather remind me of her.”

“If she’s the kind of girl who will play with a fellow’s heart just for a lark then you’re well rid of her,” Eglantine said. 

“No, she wasn’t like that at all,” he said wearily.

“What did she do to you?” Eglantine asked.

“She died,” he said.

With those two words Eglantine was stunned into silence as they pulled up in front of the castle.

Meanwhile, at Paddington station, two men were about to board a train. One of them was bidding goodbye to his wife.

“Please remember to write to me as often as possible.”

“Yes, Darling.”

“And do keep out of trouble. I’d hate to think of anything happening to you.”

“Will if I can manage it, old thing.”

“Oh, please!”

“Yes, fine, there, there.”

“And don’t be away too long.”

“I shan‘t. You’ll hardly know I’m gone.”

“Oh…”

“Chin up, be a brave little woman.”

The other man turned away at this point, half so he wouldn’t intrude on a rare moment of tenderness. Also because he was irritated about being here in the first place and hoping to slip away. He was just about to do this when his friend’s booming voice arrested him in mid step.

“Over here Corky, don’t want to miss the train!”

James Corcoran sighed and followed his friend Ukridge.


	2. Emsworth worries, Ukridge schemes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lord Emsworth is worried about Miss Hart waving a rifle around and the wolf. We meet Athena Bennett and Ukridge lays out his scheme to Corky.

Lord Emsworth was annoyed. He’d been hoping for quiet summer where he could spend his time in his gardens and watching his beloved Empress feeding. But as always Blandings castle was crammed and jammed with people. First of all, his sister Constance had come for a visit and had brought the niece of her new husband. There was Sam Billington a nephew of his late wife and though he deeply regretted her passing one of the few advantages was that her blasted relatives had all but stopped dropping by. Until his poop Billington showed up, looking wilted. That Hart girl came in with him. She was his new sectary not so bad as sectaries go, she hadn’t asked him to sign anything or reply to any letters but… one could never tell.   
Ms. Hart had skulked in, walked into the small library and begun to clean her hunting rifle.   
This sight distressed Lord Emsworth; he went off in search of his brother Galahad.

The Hon. Galahad liked to see young women who were full of girlish mischief, pep and laughter. Therefore he was irritated that girl before him, Athena Bennett had none of these qualities. She was a petite, pale, dark haired thing, with wire rimmed spectacles who sat curled up on sofa her attention riveted to on the book she was reading. He’s hoped for more from a niece of Johnny Schoonmaker. Connie was at Blandings because her husband had business in London. The oddest thing about Athena was the way she answered any question addressed to her. She answered them as if she was speaking to a timid mouse sitting on her right shoulder.

 

“How do like England?” he had asked her.

“It’s lovely,” she murmured into her right shoulder.

 

“I bet you want to be up in London and do bit a dancing,” he suggested. “I knew girl in ‘98 who couldn’t stop dancing.”

 

“Oh no,” she said in a voice that one had to strain to hear. “I hate cities, to dangerous. I don’t like dancing.”

“Don’t like dancing?” Galahad so was shocked and stunned by this revelation his monocle nearly flew off. “I’ve never heard such a thing!” 

“I’m sorry,” Athena whispered softly into her right shoulder. “I just don’t. I’ve never really been dancing.”

“You’ve been to balls and things like that,” Galahad said.

“Yes, but I’ve never been asked to dance,” she said in her smallest voice as if the mouse on her shoulder had nodded off and she was trying not to wake it. 

It was just then that that Clarence came shuffling in. 

“Galahad?” Lord Emsworth said in a quavering voice. “Can I have a word with you, in private?”

“Yes, Clarence,” Galahad said. “What is it?”

They walked off together. Leaving Athena to her book a copy of Roget’s Thesaurus. 

“This Ms. Hart, Galahad.”

“Marvellous girl, filled to the top with vim and zest. I knew you’d like her as soon got her the position.”

“I found her cleaning a rifle in the small library. Most worrying. I mean what if should accidentally go off and hit the Empress!”

 

“Look I’m sure she knows what she’s doing, very capable girl. And she needs this job. Her grandmother, a remarkable woman who I knew in the ‘90s. Wrote me saying: ‘Gally, get this girl a job. I need her out of my hair.’ So I of course I knew you wouldn’t mind. So I wrote back saying: “Don’t worry. I know the very spot.’ You weren’t in London much in the 90s and never met her. She was an amazing lady part of that league they had….”

Clarence who had drifted away during this anecdote injected with: “But why did she have the rifle in the first place?”

“Oh, Eggy wants to hunt that large, black wolf that’s been reported by some locals.” Galahad remarked

“Good god! A great black wolf! My Empress!” Clarence exclaimed. “If doesn’t harm her, it could scare her so bad she goes off her feed.” 

“Don’t worry Clarence, nothing’s been damaged. Most likely the blokes who reported were drunk and just saw a loose dog.” Galahad said calmly.

“Well, I’ll much feel better when my new pig men come. I’ve read over the papers they sent me and they sound highly qualified.” Clarence said. “I’m sure they’ll know exactly what do.” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
“….We’re going to Shropshire to do what?!” Corky exclaimed.

He looked across the train compartment at his friend Ukridge with an incredulous expression on his face. 

“Tend a pig, not just any pig laddie, a prize winning pig,” Ukridge said and drew on his pipe.

“I don’t care what kind of bally pig it is!” Corky said. “And what do know about tending pigs anyways? About as much you know about chicken farming.”

“Don’t mention chickens, old horse. No, chickens are a mugs game, glad I’m out of it.” Ukridge replied. “Besides it should be easy tending a pig, a little child could do it.”

Corky just let out a sigh and stared at the scenery passing out the train window with a mournful air.

“Why did this old fellow hire us in the first place?” he asked.

“I had this friend of mine-great fellow you’d like him- make up some papers for us. Which make us look like pig experts. Made this Emsworth positively leaping to hire us. “ Ukridge said.

“Oh,” Corky sighed still trying to find a chink in Ukridge’s armor. “Still it’s bit low for you settling on pig tending. I always thought you would set your expectations a bit higher.”

There was conspiratorial glitter in the eyes behind the pince-nez. 

“Well, laddie,” Ukridge said with grin. “The pig tending is just part one of my scheme. We are going to kidnap this pig and hold it for ransom.”

“That’s it,” Corky said. “You’ve lost your reason. Pignapping, who’d pay ransom for a pig?”

“Emsworth would,” Ukridge replied. “I was up in Wolverhampton and I was talking to this fellow runs a pub up there. He used to be Emsworth’s pigman. He told me the old fellow is potty for his pig. Thinks of it not as of a porker but a beloved daughter. If we kidnap the animal we can ask unto half his kingdom for ransom! We’ll be rolling in the stuff, laddie!”

Corky looked at his old school friend in dumb amazement. And then shaking his head he grabbed his hat and coat. “That’s it, I’m getting at the next station. You can send me a post card about it. Good-bye”

Corky was in the act of opening the compartment door when Ukridge said: “Upon my sam! You wouldn’t do this to a friend, laddie not in his hour of need. Not you Corky with your large heart and stout sinews. I really need this capital, old horse. I’ll take you into my confidence.” 

There was something an almost desperate pleading in the great man’s voice that made Corky close the door and resume his seat. “What?”

“It’s Millie she‘s…” Ukridge said, his brow wrinkling attempting for maybe the first time in his many years to put something delicately. “… Up the duff, old horse.” 

“Oh.” Corky replied, his eyes widening in shock. 

“That’s why I need this capitol. I always planned on having a family; I thought it would be when I’d made a pile. Two can live as cheaply as one but three can‘t.” Ukridge said. 

“So when is the stork due to visit?” Corky asked.

“Sometime in January,” Ukridge replied. “We need all the help we can get. That’s why I knew you’d pitch in and come to the aid to the party. Millie is off trying to put the touch on the Aunts, Elizabeth and possibly Julia.”

 

“But your Aunt Julia disowned you,” Corky said. 

“Yes, even that hard-hearted old pen pusher wouldn’t allow a little child to starve.” Ukridge said. 

Corky looked over at his friend. Ukridge had a cloud over him and not just of tobacco smoke. His nez-pince eschew, his yellow raincoat was rumpled. Corky tried to imagine the little Ukridge that would be entering the world soon. It would be an unhappy childhood constantly running from duns. 

“Fine. I’ll help you,” Corky said.

“Knew you would! Now as a precaution I’ve given us both false names. I’m Christopher Wickham and your George Drawlight…”


	3. Baxter is in the soup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Change of mood to horror. Poor Mr. Baxter.

The sun had just plunged below the horizon. So the room was darkening not yet dark enough for the lights to be flicked on. This is exactly what Rupert Baxter wished to do. Even though he didn’t show it, his newest employer Ms. Duvaine unnerved him to the core of his efficient soul. Whenever she in a room, the air always felt stale and close. Also odd he had an desire to eat insects. She was in the chair across from the desk, a dark heavy veil over her face sitting as serenely an iceberg. That was another thing, Mr. Baxter didn’t like, he actually never saw her face. Of course he couldn’t be choosy as of late, most of the reputable families thought he was insane and Horace Jevons his oft-times employers had recently died. She paid him a decent wage to over see her affairs and rarely came into see him. Whenever he did see her, the little hairs on back of his neck would rise. 

“Baxter,” she said in her soft and mild voice.

“Yes Ms. Duvaine?” he answered sounding much like his old self as he could.

“I wish for a change of location,” she said. “London is wearing a bit thin.”

“Where?” he asked.

“The country perhaps Shropshire,” she replied.

He didn’t like where this was going. His face took on an expression of someone who had taken a largish bite of lemon. Most Englishmen when hearing the mention of this county think of a bucolic paradise and rural serenity. Not so with Efficient Baxter his associations with Shropshire were those of being shot at by air-guns, getting eggs in the face, blackmail and disgrace. He didn’t wish to return there. 

Where exactly in Shropshire do you wish to go?” He asked.

“Near a place called Blandings,” she replied, calm as ever.

 

Baxter tried to control the start he gave at that name. Shropshire was bad enough, but Blandings. Fate had a way of bringing him back to that cursed place no matter what course he’d taken to avoid it. Yet something of the old Baxter spirit came back to him at this moment. He stared at her, in his normal controlled way. She was just a woman, after all and there hadn’t been one person in whose employment he’d been that he hadn’t managed to steer into his way of thinking. So that is why he did it, looking back on it was very stupid thing to do. 

 

“Are you sure you want to go Blandings Miss. Duvaine? Are you wouldn’t rather go to Devonshire or Cornwall?” He asked in his characteristic pointed way.

 

“Yes I am.” She said.

Unfortunately, he didn’t notice the slight warning in her tone. 

“I don’t think you should be going to Shropshire at all.” he said.

“Mr. Baxter we will be going to Shropshire near Blandings castle,” she said. “Do I make myself clear?”

She lifted off her veil with those words. Baxter became aware that it was quite dark in the room. But he could see her face. She reminded him terribly of a line from poem they’d made him memorize in school. “… skin is as white as leprosy, lips red as blood..” He never liked that poem in the first place. She was beautiful but until now feminine beauty never had a pull for The efficient Baxter. However, now as she cold blue eyes gazed into his he felt a powerful, unnatural draw to her. She had left her seat and was coming towards him. He had never felt so helpless in all his life as she approached, he was rooted to the spot unable to move. Suddenly she was so close to him close enough that when her red lips parted in a smile he could see her teeth… her pointed teeth.

**Author's Note:**

> To P.G. Wodehouse. Every Feb 14th I mourn him. However, this year his favorite breed (pekes) won best in show. I think he's up there watching and smiling.


End file.
